


The World Eater Wakes and the Wheel Turns...

by MikaLero



Series: For All Things, an Appointed Time... [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Half-Altmer, Half-Human, I will take back what is ours, Jealousy, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Resentment, Rundil is a total slut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MikaLero/pseuds/MikaLero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>News of High King Torygg's murder at the hands of Ulfric Stormcloak has reached into Cyrodiil.  As the Civil War in Skyrim gains momentum, Runa Silver-Hawk is making her way home to Kynesgrove in Eastmarch to make sure that her family is safe.  The Divines, and other fate-weaving powers that be do not let her alone so easily, and Runa finds herself a captive, and bound for execution on account of the one person in all of Nirn she despises more than anything...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unwanted Reunions, Unexpected Friendships

**Author's Note:**

> The Elder Scrolls and all  
> characters and content are  
> copyrighted to Bethesda.
> 
> No warnings yet to speak of,  
> save a few bad words.

  
_17 of Last Seed (August) 4E201_

    The buzzing hum of insects, light whistles and chirps of the birds, and the never ending creaking groans of turning wagon wheels had been the only sounds to break the heavy, dreadful silence for the last several hours. The cart jolted abruptly as it lumbered over a few sizeable stones in the road. Runa jerked awake, sitting up quickly - too quickly as it turned out.  A hard wave of nausea and stabbing pain in her head blurred her vision, slammed shut her eyes as quickly as they had opened, and made her groan, wilting over her lap and dipping her bound hands and head down between her knees.  

“Hey you…” came a husky voice from the seat across her’s. “You’re finally awake…You were trying to cross the border right?”

A half-hearted groan was the best she could manage at the moment in response.  The subsequent whining voice of another unfortunate prisoner - a horse thief - was nearly unintelligible in her own numb, ringing ears.  She did manage to catch snippets about the Stormcloaks though. Why would they think she was one of _Ulfric’s_ rebels?  With the bindings preventing much else, Runa pressed her clenched hands to her forehead in an attempt to assuage some of the pain that made her eyes feel as though they were about to burst inside her skull. How long had she been unconscious? Each excruciating moment started bringing foggy memories back into focus.  Her mouth was dry and tasted foul.  

She remembered being stopped on the road by two Auxiliary Scouts, entirely unaware of the commotion going around the down-sloped bend in the road.  A Skyrim-born Nord (as far as anyone could tell without looking too hard or closely), her travel papers were in order, and she had no weapons to speak of except a scant handful of steel-tipped arrows and an exquisitely well made, heavy hunting bow decorated with the colors and sigils of her native Hold - a gift from her stepfather in the twilight days of his life.

Drawing a sharp breath through her teeth, she understood.  By Ysmir’s breath, it had been the bow! Despite having received it a goodly time before Ulfric’s return to Windhelm, the significance and honor of Eastmarch’s Bear Sigil had been utterly tarnished, and any who still displayed it were almost all judged immediately guilty by nominal association to the misguided crusade of Windhelm’s current Jarl - as well as his willingness to bleed his own country dry if it meant gaining the power to pursue the vengeance he lusted for.

Fumbling around her neck and chest, struggling against the bindings as best she could, a visible wave of relief washed over her features when she felt the reassuring pressure of her mother’s Star amulet, made of moonstone, crystal, and colored glass against her skin - Freya had given it to her when she left for her journey south into Cyrodiil five years before. Thankfully, the Legionnaires hadn't seen the need to strip her naked of her traveling leathers and cloak. Her weapons - and her gold of course - were all that appeared to have been confiscated.

Forcing herself to sit up straight, her eyes opened slowly to try and adjust to the light.  Bright green rings were set against a background of pale amber. Huffing a breath at the tip of her nose, Runa tried with no real success to push and pull straggling pieces of her braids back together. She gave up the frustrating chestnut colored, honey streaked mess quickly - after all there were more pressing issues at hand.  She took comfort knowing that enough of her braided locks remained in place to cover the dainty, pixie-like points to her ears.    
  


“Pretty eyes,” said that husky voice again.  Lowering her gaze away from the view of  the younger Nord’s face, she could only offer a weak smile.  Remarks and compliments of that sort, despite being innocently and harmlessly intended more often than not, made Runa anxious. While her twin brother Rundil derived a sort of perverse joy in going out of his way to make bigoted or narrow minded individuals around him as uncomfortable as possible, personal past experience had conditioned her with many hard and painful lessons to be jealous and paranoid in guarding the secret of her blended blood. It made her life a much more pleasant experience most of the time.  Though as it became increasingly apparent that all their lives were about to be given over to Arkay’s care in a short space, the more it occurred to her that with the situation being as it was, and given the convincingly sincere air the young man had, there was no harm in just smiling a little and mumbling a soft thanks.

The driver was not in a much better mood than most of his captives.  He barked at them, flicking his horsewhip behind him blindly. “Shut up back there!”

“What’s wrong with _him_?” the horse thief sulked after a moment or two, jutting his jaw out towards a man in binds to Runa’s right.  

“Watch your tongue! You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!”  


The sharp admonition of the first voice she had heard caused her head to jerk up slightly, eyes wide.  ‘No...It can’t be...’ she thought. Turning to get a look to her right at the gagged Nord beside her, eyes widened in recognition.  She’d been away from Skyrim for the last five years, and had not set foot in Windhelm for five years prior to that. He had back then had a strong enough resemblance to his father, Jarl Ullr, to be a point of note, but now? By Shor, the last decade and its troubles had aged his face prematurely, sculpting it into a nearly indistinguishable replica of the Old Bear of Eastmarch. His eyes looked up at her, and after a very brief moment, betrayed a similar recognition. Ulfric’s reaction however, was much less one of shock, and more of old anger and intense annoyance.

“If...if they’ve captured you…” the thief stuttered with rising panic. “W...where are they taking us?”

Bracing his elbows on his knees, the other man sighed and proceeded to state the obvious with a nonchalance that Runa thought was more than a touch odd.

“Don’t know where we’re going.  But Sovngarde awaits…”

The color in her face sickened a few shades to a green like color.  “Oh, _FUCK_  me," she barked, kicking the other side of the carriage bench as hard as she could for sheer despairing anger and frustration.  She had not intended to say that thought out loud. However with the prospect of swift and imminent death for the crime of carrying a long ago given gift that happened to come from the same Hold as the Rebel Jarl, her care about such things was gone.

The younger Nord who had so quickly jumped to defend his Jarl’s honor before, startled at the close and unexpected impact and just stared a moment at the woman in front of him.  Glancing over his expression, she was hard pressed to tell if he was simply stunned at her blunt exclamation, or about to again take offense. It didn’t occur to her that her startling outburst had actually been the first intelligible thing she’d said since being dumped in the wagon unconscious.

Perhaps he saw something in her unguarded expression of despair, as the next time he spoke, it was with a much softer and more conciliatory tone.  He turned first to the witless, skinny one beside him. The poor man trembled like a leaf.  

“Where are you from, horse-thief?”

The grubby man scoffed.  “Why do you _care_?” he spat back.

Shrugging his shoulders, the rebel leaned back against the edge of the cart, and let his eyes wander over to this strange woman in front of him.  Her head was again dipped, and he could see a poorly contained shaking in her shoulders.

He may have been responding to the thief’s question, but he looked at Runa as he did so.  “A Nord’s last thoughts, should be of home.”

Those words brought tears to her eyes as the gravity of the situation pressed down harder and harder, until it threatened to crush her chest.  

“Rorikstead. I’m from Rorikstead.” the thief finally said, a pitiful sadness breaking through the weak bluster of his earlier attitude.

“And you… kinswoman?” the young Stormcloak asked, a bit more softly.

“Kynesgrove.” she whispered hoarsely, not lifting her eyes from the floor of the cart. Her accent was not quite so thick as it used to be, but still bore the distinct inflections of Central Eastmarch.  “I was returning home from a sojourn in Cyrodiil. With news of the war… I wanted to see my mother - to make sure she was well and safe from harm.”

Beside her, Ulfric’s attempts at a response was muffled so thoroughly as to be unintelligible.  It took no great amount of wisdom to discern the harsh bite of antipathy and sarcasm in whatever it was he had tried to say.

Biting her tongue to keep from lashing out immediately, in a one-sided conversation that would do nothing but confuse others and make them maddeningly curious, Runa took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.  Even bound and gagged on the way to a most certainly guaranteed and unpleasant end, she knew Ulfric would somehow manage to give her no way to avoid a confrontation ofsome kind.  She was also never one to do things halfway.  Cutting her eyes to the side, she narrowed them at Ulfric and spoke in a low, almost dangerous, disgusted tone. If they were all about to die, why hold anything back?  She’d anger him if he understood her, and even more so if he didn’t.

_“þú vældur várr frænda rogi, Ulfric. Vætr eða kyndráp ok þolr... ”  
_ ( You cause strife among our kin, Ulfric. Nothing but kinslaying and suffering… )  
  
 _“Ok lagið sem þú stíga… er einga Orkey gata…er einga Helvegen...”_  
( The path you're traveling… It is only Orkey's* way… It is the Path of Death )  
  
Her tone was not a begging, pleading, or reasoning one by any means. Even to those who did not understand the words she spoke, it was still obvious she was lecturing him on some great fault or folly. The young Stormcloak soldier watched her with knitted brows and switched his eyes back and forth between her face and his Jarl’s - expression alternating between curiosity and awkward discomfort.

Ulfric’s eyebrows arched in mild surprise, attempting yet another harsh, angry response and failing. He remembered this mongrel was not ignorant or uneducated by any means, but it fouled his mood to know she spoke the tongue of the old Nords of Ysgramor’s day with such ease, while the vast majority of Skyrim’s true sons and daughters knew not a single word. Though in his, and the hearts of many others, trading one language for another was a trifling change compared to the forced adoption of Alessia’s bastardized mish-mash of Divines from the holy scriptures and pantheons of both Man and Mer.

Given the large pockets of people in the Eastern Holds who still held fast to the old Nordic Gods with their animal totems, enough of Ulfric’s general education in that part of their history allowed him to understand the general meaning of her words, although his mental translation was far from flawless. His thoughts were dark, bitter, and wracked with no small degree of jealousy - resentful that such a treasured remnant of true Nordic culture and faith fell into the hands of one like this _thing_ \- offspring of a Silver-Hawk or not.  
  


Runa’s face hardened, leashing her growing anger, while at the same time keeping contained, as she always had, any sympathetic or sorrowful notions that might have tempted her to begin rationalizing the abhorrent treatment that her family and countless others had received at this man’s hands upon his return to Windhelm.

The gates of their destination were coming into view around the corner of the road.  Not much longer now.  Perhaps if Runa meet her death with enough grace and courage, Kyne would intervene with her beloved husband Shor on her lowly mortal behalf, and permit at least the chance for an opportunity to enter the Hall of Valor - to join her mother Freya’s ancestors, and not feel ashamed in their presence.

Giving one last look to Ulfric, she spat at the cart-floor near his feet, and growled out a last angry jab at him before they were all forced off the wagons and into rough lines, away from one another.

_“Ef mun Keizaal fylgja þik, allr verðr þrjóta - ok þú ǫnd verðr dreyrugr jafnan ok feikinstannr.”_  
(‘If Skyrim follows /you/ in this, all will fail - And your soul will be forever blood-stained and cursed. )

His eyes glowered darkly as he passed her - deep and dangerous.  

‘ _We will see, Little Hawk._ ’ he thought to himself.

\---------------  
  
“Get down!”

Runa dropped to her knees, catching herself on her hands before ending up face first into the dirt as Ralof’s thickly muscled arm grabbed around her shoulders and pulled her down behind a large outcropping of rock. Craning her neck, she cast her eyes up past the brim of her cloak’s hood  to the sky.  The shadow of the black dragon swept over them, his great maw opening in a deafening roar that even from such a distance made the ground beneath their feet quake.

She moaned softly, making a weak attempt at covering her ears. Wincing and hissing sharply, her eyes closed reflexively and everything started spinning again as her hands brushed the spot just above and behind her right ear where she’d been struck by the butt-end of an axe.

“Woah there… Easy now,” Ralof said as he helped ease her into a sitting position up against the rock, hands keeping a steadying grip on her shoulders.  On one knee in front of her, he tilted her chin up and to the side with a crooked finger.  By the time her sense of what was going on began to catch up with reality, his other hand was beginning to push back her hair to try and get a look at where she’d been hit.

An intense and sudden wave of panic seized her. She jerked her head away and threw up her arms as if she were trying to ward off an incoming blow. Even at her best and not suffering from the effects of a significant blow to the head, Runa had never responded well to unexpected intrusions into her personal space.

“Shor’s blood woman!” Ralof exclaimed with confused frustration, grabbing one of her wrists and ducking his head slightly to avoid being accidentally struck in the face. “I’m trying to _help_ you, damnit!”

She opened her eyes to look at him, blinking repeatedly to try and shake off the daze that still made everything feel, sound, and appear fuzzy. Opening her mouth to say something, she closed it again as the thought ran away just as quickly as it had come, her cheeks growing hot and flushed with embarrassment.

Ralof sighed and dropped her wrist.  He reached his hand out again slowly, pausing before he actually touched her chin and lifted his brow as if asking permission first. Runa gave a tiny, silent nod, looking away as he coaxed back her messy braids.  She felt his fingers twitch slightly when they ghosted over her ear to examine her scalp - or at least she thought she might have. It wouldn’t have been the first time she had ‘perceived’ something in the odd look or random glance that wasn’t actually there.

To his credit and her relief, if he noticed anything ‘remarkable’ about her features, it was not mentioned.  “Don’t look like anything managed to actually cut you,” he said, pausing another few moments while he looked over the rest of her head for anything possibly missed.

Removing his hands, he shifted back to sit on his heels and glanced down the road that lead down and away from the cave.  Blue eyes looked back at her, and to her confusion, appeared to be... concerned? No, that couldn't be right...torn? Contemplative?

“What?” she said with a more snappy, defensive edge than she had intended. Biting her lip she sighed and let her head tilt back to rest against the rock.  Tired.  She was too tired to move, or even properly think. All she wanted to do was sleep.

Ralof grimaced slightly before reaching out to grasp her hands and stand, pulling her up along with him.  “None of that now…. what did the Jarl call you?  Runa, is it?”

Her whining groans of protest cut short abruptly when Ralof mentioned Ulfric and her own name in such close proximity. The Nord couldn’t say he really felt at ease with how unsettling her displeased expression at that time was, but least she wasn’t in danger of falling asleep for the moment.

Runa’s jaw clenched as much as she dared, but she returned his grasp and with his help, managed to get to her feet and stay there.

“Aye, it is,” she said quietly, pulling a few stray sticks and pebbles out of the pockets and folds of her leathers. The garbled miasma of memories had begun to focus and reorder themselves as much as could be expected as her mind and body began to move towards a calmer state, and her adrenaline levels dropped. Of course, she had always hoped she’d be able to avoid an eventual reunion, but the circumstance of today had turned her expectations entirely on their heads.  
\--------

_The great BOOM of the Dragon’s voice had knocked her off the headsman’s block and onto her side in the dirt.  Everything was a fuddled, kaleidoscope of color, sound and smell, and for several moments she grasped at trying to find what was up and what was down. Getting at least to her knees, time felt like it was moving more slowly - as if sound and sight was passing through water.  Runa could hear his voice… Ralof? That had been the name he’d answered to. She could hear him, but not make out what he was saying._

_Her hands were still bound, and she swayed to one side or another trying to get her feet underneath her.  Strong hands grabbed one of her arms and pulled her up the rest of the way, bidding her urgently to move.  She didn’t stop running until her hands and face were pressed against the stone of the tower’s staircase.  Her breathing was heavy and frantic, and what semblance of sense remaining had to fight to retain control._

_‘Jarl Ulfric! What is that thing? Can the legends be true?!’ Ralof’s bewildered voice rose above the din.  Runa had turned around just in time to catch Ulfric’s eyes as he surveyed every nook, corner, and stone in sight for an advantage.  His face twitched in an aborted sneer. Despite the fantastical claims his enemies made about his capacity for cruelty, he wasn’t an utterly heartless monster.  Whatever else he felt and thought about her, he could see her teetering on the fence between control and unrestrained terror._

_‘Legends don’t burn down villages,’ he said dryly. Looking to Ralof, he tilted his head towards one of the more seriously injured Stormcloaks on the ground with another already knelt over her before speaking for everyone to hear. ‘We need to move… now!’_

_Taking advantage of everyone’s brief distraction, Ulfric gripped the handle of a short war-axe and strode towards the mer-spawn.  Her posture immediately became defensive, her level of uncertainty and fear threatening to ruin what common sense she’d mustered back together.  He was not taller than she was anymore, though he was no less towering and intimidating in the current circumstances.  Runa shrunk back against the wall, truly having no idea what he meant to do._

_Ulfric frowned when he grabbed her by the wrist bindings to stop her from shrinking to the floor.  As much as the idea of her existence was an anathema to him, he didn’t take pleasure in the unnecessary terror of children. A few quick swipes, and he had cut her free._

_“Still getting into trouble Runa? Your fortunes do not seem to have changed much,” he said, curiosity nagging in the back of his mind where her other half was._

_Runa looked at him with an expression of bewilderment as he cut her loose.  She wondered if he was madness-touched enough to think the gesture was supposed to_ impress _or draw_ gratitutde _from her.  The green of her eyes darkened, and their amber settings flashed a little more brightly as Ulfric’s words turned confusion into spite._

_“No thanks to you,_ Brother Bear _,” she snarled._

_Ulfric had no chance to respond before Ralof, having quickly done what could be done for the few others in the tower, turned back to Runa and took her by the shoulders to direct her to the stairs._

_“Up through the tower, let’s go!”_

_And just as abruptly as fate had smashed them into each other’s way, they were parted.  
_ \---------  
  
“Bad blood between you two then?”

Ralof’s voice brought the forefront of her mind back to the present.  Instead of being perturbed by his curiosity, Runa actually cracked a dry smile. “You have _no_ idea.”

He bent down to pick up the heavy satchel that had been acquired during the course of their escape.  “I think the dragon is gone for now.  No idea if he’s come back, but Imperials will be swarming this place by nightfall to be sure.”

Nodding in agreement to the unstated need for them to find somewhere else to be before then, she bent down to pick up the quiver of arrows she had dropped when they first stumbled out of the cave.  She smiled with a great sense of satisfaction as her fingers closed around the familiar, molded grip of her bow. She ran the fingers of her other hand up and down its curve, circling the carved bear head fondly.  She had believed it lost forever, only to find it on the corpse of the Imperial Captain who had ordered Runa’s execution, not seeing or outright ignoring the look of horror on her Nord lieutenant’s face after he’d already told her, ‘But she’s a _Silver-Hawk_!’

Her current traveling companion had already been forced to his place in the execution line, and had not been privy to that exchange. It would stay that way if she could help it.  

“Riverwood is a few hours down the road, isn’t it?” she asked.

He gave a bright smile, invigorated by the reality of still being alive after all of that. “My sister Gerdur and her husband own the mill.  She’ll help us.”

She blinked a few times, trying not to appear as befuddled and foggy in her mind as she still felt.

“Us?”

“Of course!” he said, tone implying wonder at why she’d even ask. “I wouldn’t have made it out of there without your help today. Besides, how far do you think you’d get before that concussion catches up with you again?”

Runa leaned back against the rock, letting it take on some of the task of keeping her upright.  Wasn’t this just a fine and dandy cap to the end of the day? First, in all the places of the world, happening to stumble across just the wrong one at the wrong time to be tossed into Ulfric’s mess, then being one swing of the Headsman’s axe away from a one way trip to Aetherius, _then_ being ‘saved’ by a Dragon… A bloody. fucking. _DRAGON_!  And now, here she was, being almost minded like some kind of ward by the first Nord man she’d met in years that wasn’t acting like a ham-fisted, cabbage-brained, racist ass.  What wonders would tomorrow bring to top this?

“Probably not very far,” she conceded, taking his offered hand and letting him pull her out of her lean.

“Good. I’m glad you can see reason.  Saves me the trouble of having to sling you over my shoulder and carry you the whole way.”

Her mouth scowled and brows furrowed in annoyance.  She must have looked funny because he broke out into laughter.  Runa punched his left arm and muttered. For the love of Kyne, five years away from home, and the first day she'd set foot back in Skyrim, and Rundil had somewhere, somehow found a way to follow and torment her in the guise of this cheeky Nord.

“Alright, alright,” he said with his hands up in apology. Having secured what little they had, he tugged at her arm to get them both moving down the path.

“So kinswoman…” he began, his persistent inquiries and attempts at conversation as much driven by genuine curiosity as a round-about way to make sure she stayed awake and alert. “What took you down to Cyrodiil of all places?”

Runa’s teeth gritted briefly, before the pain and throbbing in her head reminded her way that was not a good idea. His curiosity was mildly annoying, but why not tell him?  He had helped save her life just as much as the other way around.

“Chasing family ghosts and legends…” she said after mulling over her words a moment.

Ralof cut a half-grin.  This was going to be an interesting trip.


	2. Heroes Are But Mortal Men...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Runa and Ralof arrive in Riverwood, and thanks to Gerdur's bluntness and lack of tact, Ralof ends up having a number of his illusions about the nobility of Ulfric Stormcloak broken.

_Late Evening, 17th of Last Seed (August), 4E201_

 

    The two had made it to Riverwood just before the setting sun had started turning the sky deep shades of orange, pink, and purple.  Runa’s head had only spun and ached badly enough to come to an all out stop once.  Aside from that, she did well enough on her own or needed only the help of an arm around her traveling companion’s shoulders. Gerdur was a kind enough woman - brusque and rough around the edges as so many women in Skyrim were.  

Their hospitality was refreshing, and Runa was content to enjoy the bit of space and privacy in the lower floors of their home, while Ralof related the tale of their harrowing escape to his sister and her husband upstairs.  It felt good to strip out of her dirty, uncomfortable clothes.  Her hostess had provided a washbowl and one of her own sets - a cream colored, layered skirt with a pale green over dress -  to wear until Runa’s could be cleaned. Sitting on the edge of the bed she very carefully began to untie her braids and tease out the knotted mess into some semblance of order. The pain was muted, and the dizziness, while still present, had subsided to something more tolerable with the home remedies Gerdur had given out of her stock.  By the time she was finished, her hair hung loose around her shoulders with a slight halo of frizz and incorrigible strands that created a lighter shade to look at than was actually there.  She let her hands fall idly in her lap, the brush grasped only listlessly.

Dragons? _A_ dragon anyway.

Runa fingered her mother’s amulet as she put the brush aside and began to lose herself in thought.  Most memories of the actual dragon were still pictures, no stretches of active, motioned memory longer than a few seconds.  He was a great black thing - his wings seemed to shadow the very sun at their fullest stretch, and his claws, spines, scales… razor sharp monstrosities that cut down man after man like wheat in the fields.

It frustrated her endlessly.  There was something here she should be understanding. The thought, the connection danced around the edges of her mind like a lost word on the tip of the tongue. She gathered all her hair and twisted it into a single loose tail behind her with a sigh.  By the time she finally found her way to Kynesgrove, her brother would have undoubtedly put his studies at the Mages College on hold to ensure their mother’s well-being.  Rundil was more than capable of protecting their family if any part of Ulfric’s war put Kynesgrove in danger - but with a dragon appearing right out of the pages of the story books, the news and accompanying panic were going to travel _fast_.

Runa’s thoughts were put aside when she heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and the animated cadence of Ralof and Gerdur’s conversation.  Brushing her hands over the skirt, she stood up as they came through the doorway.  

Ralof ran a hand through his hair, a mug of drink in the other, and leaned against the doorframe as his sister lightly smacked his shoulder with the back of her hand and laughed while continuing to walk with a bucket of warm water held against her hip. As she walked over towards the bar, she glanced over to Runa, doing a double take when she saw the younger woman standing.

“Mara’s mercy, you should be resting!”

She hurried over to her, fussing and squawking like a henish mother as she set the bucket on the table stand next to the bed.  A thick folded cloth was draped over the edge, and Runa could smell wafts of rich, heavy minerals and light odors of sulphur from the reheated hot spring water within.

Runa was pushed down to lay back on the bed with an ‘oomph’ - given little to no time to react before the other woman began moving her head this way and that, gaze fixed studiously on her pupils to observe their reaction. Apparently satisfied with whatever she saw, Gerdur smiled.  

“Ralof tells me you hail from Eastmarch,” she said as she soaked the cloth in the hot mineral water, wringing it out thoroughly. Runa closed her eyes a moment and grimaced as Gerdur put the compress to her head.

“Aye, Kynesgrove,” she said softly after the dizziness and initial pain from her head being touched subsided.  “Been in Cyrodiil the last five years or so.”  Runa wasn’t quite sure what made her feel so conversational, if one could call it that.  She wasn’t one for volunteering information typically. And it was in very short order she was reminded why.

“Which one of your parents was the Mer?”

Ralof nearly spit his mead through his nose at his sister’s question. Of course he’d noticed there was something not entirely Nordic about Runa when he’d first seen her eyes, and the points on her ears when he’d examined her injuries had been unmistakable - but he wasn’t fool, or rude enough to have felt the need to point it out.  “ _Gerdur_ …”

Runa’s expression had gone flat, and her lips pressed into a thin line. She teetered on the edge between the rare openness few ever saw and the unmoving coldness the rest of the world was given as a default.  Gerdur glanced over at her brother with a raised brow and shrugged her shoulders.

“What?  A woman can’t be curious?” she asked, turning back to look at Runa, softening her face a touch when it was apparent just how raw of a nerve she had just touched upon.  “I meant no offense, or to question…”

Runa interrupted her with a curt tone, one hand pushing Gerdur’s away to hold the compress to her head and the other to edge herself up to a sitting position.  “Most don’t, but offend regardless.”

Her cheeks burned hot, and for several awkward moments, she didn’t want to look at either of them.  Gerdur had quickly dried her hands and gotten up from the bedside, flustered and unsure of what to say, and Runa could feel the sympathy from Ralof’s look - or so entrenched demons and insecurities told her.  They’d been kind to her - far more than most, and despite the less than tactful manner of the asking, it wasn’t as if she could be angry with Gerdur for being curious.

“My mother joined the Legion during the War,” she said quietly. “Spent the last year of it in Thalmor hands, and came home heavy with my brother and I for it.”

And there it was - undeniable when she looked up finally to see their faces.  First the expression of shock as the implication of her words took the most obvious root in their minds, followed quickly by anger and _pity_.  Gods, she _hated_ the pity, hated it more than if they’d responded in the same ugly way Ulfric and his ilk did.  She couldn’t cloak herself in hate so well if they pitied her. Taking a clue from her brother’s heated look, Gerdur sighed and went back up the stairs - the sounds of her husband and son calling to her anyway.

Before Ralof could get far into his muttering, curse filled rant about those damned yellow-skinned heathen elves, she spoke again in the same sort of cold, angry voice she’d laid into Ulfric with.  

“And for the crime of doing what any captured woman would have, that she might come home alive, Ulfric branded her _traitor_ and _whore_. Said any _true_ Nord woman should have cut her own throat before birthing bastard _mongrels_ of the enemy, or thrown us out into the snow like so much worthless refuse…”

Runa’s voice wavered and choked, the pitch climbing higher as tears welled up in her eyes. She’d perceived Ralof’s devotion to Ulfric as nearly blind in its idealism. Despite her utter loathing for the current Jarl of Windhelm, it wasn’t her wish to take that away from him, or any other of her countrymen if that’s where they chose to invest their hopes. Her pain wasn’t directed at him. He was the last person her clear thinking mind would have chosen as a target for her bitterness. But, despite the wrongness of it, he was there and it was easy.

Ralof felt torn.  The pain from his new companion’s face and in her voice was as keening and piercing as he’d felt when his own cousin had been dragged out in the middle of the night, never to be heard from again.  It was as hard to hear as the wails out of those towns, villages and passing farms that had been torched or razed by the puppeted forces of the Legion - sometimes by the Thalmor themselves when the Dominion grew bold enough.  

“You’ve been gone five years? Do you have any idea what how bad things have gotten here?” he said finally, having pulled up a seat next to the bed and rested his elbows on his knees.  “Those damned black-robed elves were at the borders of our heartland.  They take our kin from here, there, from Whiterun itself out from under Balgruuf’s nose - take them away to be tortured, killed… All we know is we’ll never see them again.”  

“And that gives your _Jarl_ the right to throw children out to the mercies of winter for the crime of having a foreign father?  That made your Jarl believe the murder of his king… his _High King_ , a boy, a _BOY_ not even half his age... that this was the first and only course for the goal of a free Skyrim?”

Now Ralof was growing angry, and his voice betrayed it.  “So you would have had us throw our future away on Istlod’s son, an Imperial puppet who would have handed us over to the Dominion on a gilded plate, _like a PIG to slaughter?!_ ”

“ _NO_!” Runa shrieked, “I would have first bothered to ask the opinion of my _KING_ before slipping into his city under the guise of friendship like a _sneak thief_ in the night… I would not have hidden my true intentions until they became too late to avoid…  It reeks of _DISHONOR,_ ” she roared.

“There is no honor in attacking the defenseless or killing the weak Ralof, you must know this!” she continued relentlessly, giving the younger Nord little chance to respond beyond angry faces and a thrown mug against the wall for what he knew she was bound to say next.

“Ulfric shouted down a man more than 20 years his younger, with a weapon there was no defense against.  And he plunged his sword into Torrygg’s heart, only _after_ he’d been shouted into unconsciousness.”

Putting away the wet compress with a slop into the bucket, she slid from the bed to kneel next to him.  She put a hand on his knee and tilted her head to try and catch his eyes.

“Ralof…” she said with a soft whisper until he looked up at her with eyes that were equal parts full of rage, questioning, and confused sadness.    
  
“This is not the man I know,” he said, his voice just as confused it seemed as his expression. “This has not been what I have seen in him, and pledged my life to defend.”

Runa put her hands over both of his, more to steady herself than to comfort.  “And either he has grown enough in the last decade to put the two beforehand in the ground where they belong, or he has become much more skilled at hiding the man that _I_ remember,” she said… and after a very long sigh, when she no longer saw the kind blue eyes she’d seen before when he looked up at her - she resigned herself.  It wouldn’t do to stay much longer here, and she doubted there would be much protest now to her leaving before dawn.

“Your sister wants someone witness to the dragon attack to bring word to Whiterun.  I have volunteered, as it was my mother’s birthplace.  You ought to rest.  You have a much longer journey ahead of you to Windhelm.”

He nodded curtly, shoving himself in a standing position and falling over onto the single cot-like bed to face the wall, as far away from Runa as was possible.  It might have amused her any other time, as that was not very far.

“If I could beg one last favor before we part...”

Runa looked over to the foul-tempered man - the type she more often recognized.  It felt almost easier to deal with.  A guttural, inquiring grunt was the only sign he gave of having heard her.

“When you do reach Windhelm, remind Ulfric that if any harm comes to my family because of the war he started, his life is forfeit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHEW! It's a couple pages shorter than the chapters have been so far, but there's alot of information here. That, and bouts of clinical depression are never very conducive to rapid creativity.
> 
> Poor Ralof. Despite how much she hates Ulfric's guts, she feels like a total ass for letting loose on him like this. Then again, years of chronic mental abuse via institutionalized racism, and some PTSD can make people act the fool from time to time. Seeing Ulfric again is NOT doing her mental state any favors.


	3. Who We Are, and Where We Come From...

 

  


 

 

  
_The Elder Scrolls and all_  
_characters and content are_  
_copyrighted to Bethesda._

 

  _Early Morning, 18th of Last Seed (August), 4E 201_

  


    Gerdur would not hear of her brother’s compatriot leaving without at least some sleep. In whatever else they may have differed as far as opinion, she felt she owed the troubled woman a debt.  She had made Hod sleep down below with Ralof as was their custom when they had female guests, giving Runa his usual space in the larger bed, with Frodnar snuggled in between them.  Not entirely magnanimous however, was her curiosity.  Gerdur was not a dull-witted woman, and she wanted to know more about this wayward daughter of snow, who, according to her brother and her own intuition, was likely withholding a great deal about herself.

In the early morning hours, the two women rose, leaving the young boy to burrow and sleep all the more soundly under blankets and furs. They took a place by the fire after it had been stoked back to life. Runa sat on a shorter stool, while the lady of the house sat in a chair. Rough, but nimble hands brushed through the soft, honeyed chestnut-brown of Runa’s hair to rid it of the knots from overnight.  After a short time, Gerdur took a sighing breath. 

“It wasn’t my intention to upset you before.”

Runa jumped just slightly at the other woman’s voice, her thoughts having been elsewhere.  The corners of her mouth turned down just so, and she shook her head slightly. 

“It was wrong of me to become so angry,” she murmured quietly.  “Ralof saved my life in truth, as much as I did his, and you opened your home to me without a second thought."

Gerdur couldn’t help but crack a smile at this. Ice in the veins, and Nord honor in the heart with this young woman, regardless of anything else. 

“It’s good to hear you say so, though I cannot say for certain I would not have had a similar reaction, were my circumstances the same.”

There was a soft, ‘hmm’ in reply, but no more.  Giving the brushed hair a loose twist, she draped it over the side of Runa’s neck, tugging gently on her shoulder to turn the other woman to face her.

“I would know though, who you _really_ are.”

Runa’s lips thinned, and her expression fell.  Her eyes flickered to the floor and her voice was small.  Her moods often shifted and changed as swiftly as the winter winds, and she did her best to reign them in now.  “I told no lies. I am who I said.”

Gerdur’s head tilted to the side and she tipped Runa’s chin up.  Her expression was probing, but not angry or harsh.  “And what else? Ralof said he heard you call Ulfric ‘brother’. And the sort of anger and hate you showed doesn’t come from a casual knowing.”

Green eyes slid shut, and her expression screwed in a pained way. Runa’s heart hurt at the memories that flooded her mind.  Almost as a random afterthought, she wondered if it was still warm enough for flowers to grow between the flagstones in the courtyard of the Palace of Kings.  Her mind was drowning, and could not get a grasp on a single thought long enough to articulate it. 

Secrets, secrets, more secrets… Secrets made their lives dangerous.  Secrets that could be told to no one, or they would never know peace or safety - that had been the bargain made by her foremother in exchange for her son’s life. Ghosts, legends, and secrets… It went against everything she’d been raised up with to tell any of them, no matter how small.  Perhaps though, there were a few she could let go. The Wheels of Time and Fate were already turning on the others.

“Might I pray first? I have been too long without the counsel of Kyne, and I find myself in sore need of it.”

Gerdur’s brows knit a moment, a bit confused more than anything else. The request seemed a bit strange, but at the same time not. “Of course,” she said. “I will go down stairs and finish with your things.”

Runa stood, hands spread out against her lower back as she tilted her head from side to side, wincing slightly as the stiff bones cracked. She’d become too accustomed to Cyrodiil’s warmer climes.

“If you can wake him, I do not doubt Ralof would want to hear this too. I owe him such honesty at the least - and I can promise that Ulfric’s telling of the tale would be less so.”

\-------------

    Runa knelt as slowly and quietly as she could by the hearthfire.  In her hands was a large, shallow bowl filled with water, scattered petals of mountain flowers, and a thick sprig of juniper which she set in front of her.  Evergreen sprigs would have been better, but juniper would do.  The sun hadn’t yet quite peaked over the horizon, but the wispy clouds that hung low in the sky had begun to tint various shades of pink and lavender.  She took a moment to smooth the thick, cream colored cotton of her borrowed shift under her knees before settling into a sitting position with them tucked beneath her.

Her eyes slid shut and she took a long, grounding breath. Thin fingers grasped the end of the tree sprig, stirring around the edge of the bowl.  She [hummed soft and light](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Biyxas_QFjU) in her throat, but without words as to not wake Frodnar. Her face relaxed and lips curled in a quiet, ghost-like smile as she felt the rich, earthy swell of magic come up in her belly and spread out into her limbs.  Droplets of the fragrant, blessed water were flung with flicks of her wrist from the dry, shrubbish leaves of juniper in front of her, and over each shoulder. Eventually it was dropped back into the water as Runa dipped her hands in and ran them wet over her face and hair. She held out cupped hands, stopped the song, and began moving her lips in silent supplication.

“You follow the Old Ways?” Ralof’s tired voice asked from behind her as she finished her prayer and lowered her hands.  She turned her head just enough to catch sight of him in the corner of her eye, leaning with his back against the far wall, his arms crossed. He was sleepy, but his voice held none of the harshness or foul tempered edge that it had the night before.

Her smile was small, but genuine. She nodded, gesturing to the chair closest to the hearth. Pushing himself off the wall, Ralof took the back of the chair, swinging it around in front of him to sit so he might lean on its back with his folded arms. There were still enough people who held the trappings of the ancient pantheon of their forefathers, despite being devotees of the Alessian view of the Divines at heart. That he’d been able to pick out otherwise was mildly impressive to her.

“What gave it away?”

“The song,” he murmured, rubbing his eyes. “Passed through Kynesgrove on my way to Windhelm to join Ulfric’s cause and got to see a ritual prayer - used the same melody.”

Runa looked thoughtful a moment, giving a soundless, open mouthed ‘ah’, in response. She spoke nothing else quite yet, as she could hear Gerdur’s footsteps coming up from the cellar rooms of the house.  The slightly older woman held Runa’s traveling clothes neatly folded in her hands. Gerdur bent down a bit to hand them off to her guest, before taking the other seat at the fireside table.

Runa shifted a little, to sit with her legs folded off to the side of her on the floor, rather than being tucked directly beneath. She set her folded clothes beside her and sighed, watching the fire for a little while before speaking.  The siblings were waiting for her to do so.

“My clan name is Silver-Hawk, _Silfurhaukr_ in the old Atmoran,” she started. Gerdur’s brows arched and she opened her mouth a bit in surprise before interjecting.

“Silver-Hawk? Like Bjorn, the old Harbinger of the Companions before Whitemane took his place?”

The shocked fascination in her voice made Runa reluctant to look up, but she forced herself to do so anyway. Gerdur looked like she was entirely what was expected, but Ralof’s brows were knit and his expression clearly belonged to a man in deep search for thought or a specific tidbit of knowledge or memory.  Runa nodded.  “He was my grandfather, though I never knew him. He and my mother’s brothers were taken by the Great War.”

Ralof’s chin rested on his arms, crossed over the chair back.  “You said Whiterun was her birthplace? Why did she go to Kynesgrove after the war then?”

The twitch at the corner of Runa’s lips was a suppressed smile of bitter ruefulness. “Her immediate family was dead.  Many of her friends and shield brothers and sisters were also dead.  And those that weren’t, she did not wish to face carrying the burden that she did.”

The steadiness of Runa’s words faltered a bit at the end, and that she was referring to herself and her brother in such a way was not lost on Ralof or Gerdur. The pair bit their tongues again, Gerdur pinching Ralof in the meat of his arm when it looked as though he would ask yet another question. “Let her speak brother,” she had said quietly.

Runa chewed on her bottom lip a little, keeping a tight leash on the addled tendencies of her thoughts.  She had never really told this story to anyone before, not in its completion anyhow, and was at a bit of a loss as to just where to start, and with what. It helped ease her misgivings a great deal that they were willing and eager to listen for no apparent reason beyond their own curiosity, especially after the way she’d behaved and reacted the night before.

Her legs drew up to her chest and she wrapped her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees and sighed.  “Jarl Ullr - Ulfric’s father - owed my mother a life debt. He was out on a hunt with some of the Companions, and she killed a saber cat that had taken his horse out from underneath him.”

Gerdur’s brow raised a bit, a thoughtful look on her face.  A smart woman, Runa’s mother. She opened her mouth to inquire after her name before closing it again, remembering her earlier chastisement of her own brother for his verbose curiosity.

Runa chuckled, having caught that look.  Ralof looked back briefly over his shoulder and made a grouching, ‘hrmph’ sound before turning his attention back to his newly found friend.  His face may have looked glowering and sour, but there was an amused glint in his pretty eyes.

“My mother… Freya… She came to Windhelm with us from Kynesgrove to ask for a place in Ullr’s court.  Our birth had nearly killed her - Rundil had to be cut from her belly after she’d already spent a day and a night to bring me into the world. She sought any means she could, that she might raise us up in something other than poverty and squalor.”

Curiosity won out in Gerdur’s case, the sudden implications causing her to seem enraptured, and not entirely in a good way, with the tale.  For his part, Ralof kept his expression quiet and thoughtful.  There was, Runa noticed, the slightest tick in his brows and she could see the wheels in his head turning behind his unflinching gaze.

“You grew up in the Palace of Kings?” gasped the blonde woman.  “Is that why…” she began, before Ralof’s head jerked up suddenly, as if he had been bitten in the backside by a skeever. An overheard snippet of conversation from months before, that had been of no apparent consequence at the time, suddenly came back to him.

“She was the retired Thane that Galmar was trying to convince Jorlief to ask if she’d support the rebellion? That was your mother?” he asked, his own mental connection between the dots having shocked and to a degree, disturbed him.

Runa held up both hands to ask for a bit of space and peace.  She would have answered Gerdur’s question sweetly, but when Ralof spoke, her eyes cut to him sharply and her tone was dark and growling.  “ _Retired_ Thane?  Is _that_ how they speak of her now, as if she had _voluntarily_ left Court? My mother would never support Ulfric’s folly and told him as much before...”

Her words cut off abruptly, and she shook her head and rubbed her eyes, not wanting either of them to think it was their questions or themselves that angered her.  Unbidden another flash of memory came to her - her father, the only man she would ever think of as such, lifting her much younger self onto his knee as he sat at the head of the Hall and letting her watch the goings on of the Court to her heart’s content.  It hadn’t been for very long that day, as she’d fallen asleep after the third soul-crushingly boring tax and border dispute that had been brought forward.

When she spoke again, her voice trembled and the corners of her eyes pricked with tears.  She kept her words steady though, determined to make sure that when Ralof returned to Windhelm, he did so with a knowledge of the truth - for whatever good it would actually do anyone, she didn’t know.

“Yes, Rundil and I grew up in the Palace of the Kings.  My mother and fa… Jarl Ullr became close.  It was not a poetic or the most passionate love affair by any means - he was many years older, but they shared complementary sets of grief and their closeness became a comfort to both of them.”

“They married?” Gerdur asked after a moment of quiet, her earlier eagerness tamped down and her voice much softer.

Runa smiled sadly, wiping the one tear that had spilled away from her cheek.  “When we were five. But even before then he raised us as his own - better than, as I found out later. Anyone who ever so much as whispered a contrary word about it, or us, was banished from the Palace. So heavy was his hand in that matter, it wasn’t until well after they wed that I realized we were any different and he wasn’t my father by blood.”

It was Ralof who spoke next after a length of silence that stretched into the realm of discomfort. His tone mirrored his sister, quiet and smoothed around the edges.  The troubled look in his eyes was, however, pronounced and obvious. “I suppose no one thought to explain any of this to Ulfric before his return?”

Runa shook her head, choosing not to speak or otherwise reply.  She had tried to open her mouth, but her jaw locked and clenched, tightening down on a cry that escaped as a tiny hiccup. Her chest felt tight and breath squeezed out of it, her blood and heart beating so loudly in her ears she very well may not have heard anyone speak in that moment. Neither Gerdur nor Ralof needed to ask or wonder what sort, or flavor of events had transpired then - this woman’s trauma spoke for itself, and was on full display for them to see. 

Gerdur rose from her chair to kneel next to Runa, laying a comforting arm around her shoulders.  There was stirring, and a tired, whining moan on the other side of the room as Frodnar began to stir. Catching his sister’s look, Ralof got up and strode over to bundle up his nephew in a cocoon of blankets and strong arms so he might be settled in the bed downstairs before he had a chance to wake fully.

By the time Ralof had disappeared from sight, Runa was rubbing furiously at her eyes to wipe away the tears that had collected before they had a chance to spill onto her face.  Gerdur was something at a loss for words, unsure of exactly what she should, or could say.

“I am sorry such things happened to you, my friend,” she said at last.

Runa stilled momentarily before exhaling with only a little shudder, and attempting a smile.  She shoved her distress into a banded iron chest in the back of her mind and locked it away, murmured her thanks, and stretched out her legs before standing, making sure to pick up her folded clothes as she did so.

“Would you like me to help you with breakfast this morning?”

“Hm? Oh that won’t be necessary.  Pantry is a bit bare as it is, I was going to send Hod and Frodnar over to the Sleeping Giant for the morning meal.  You should go with them - I need to stay here with Ralof.”

Runa nodded, her expression one of muted disappointment. It was understandable though, as blatantly proclaiming or otherwise advertising Ralof’s presence would most certainly not have been the smartest thing to do at the time.

Moving to stand behind one of the taller chairs, Gerdur tapped the back of it. 

“Come and sit though.  Let me finish your hair before you go.”

\---------------

By the time Runa, Hod, and Frodnar left the house to head to the inn, the sun had climbed high enough in the sky to be seen above the hills and trees.  The air was deliciously crisp and clean, holding absolutely no indication of the chaos that had engulfed Helgen the day before.  She supposed she could thank the southerly breeze for that much at least. Her bow was strapped to her back, and the long strap of a ‘borrowed’ knapsack she’d picked up in Helgen slung over her shoulder. What little coin and supplies she had left, or had been gifted, were tucked away inside.

The small, quiet town was beginning to bustle with the morning’s preparations for the day.

“The Riverwood Trader is over there, and that’s Camilla.  Her brother Lucian owns the place.” Frodnar piped eagerly, pointing over towards a sturdy, tall building to their left.  A slight looking woman with dark hair and a pale yellow dress was sweeping the porch and steps. “And there,” he continued with his energetic tour, “...that’s Alvor, the blacksmith, and over there…”

“ _Peace_ boy, that’s enough out of you,” grumbled Hod.  He laughed roughly at the child’s sour face and tousled the boy’s hair with a heavy hand. Runa pursed her lips a bit, before letting a sly smile turn up the corners of her mouth.  Bending down a bit, she whispered something into Frodnar’s ear.  The boy burst out into the widest grin possible.

“Really? You mean it?” he asked, nearly squealing with excitement. 

Hod looked a little confused as the slender woman nodded solemnly and stopped to crouch down, Frodnar quickly following suit.  He barely had time to understand before Runa began to count down. The pair suddenly took off towards the inn in a run, and he couldn’t help but laugh.  He hadn’t pegged her for having a way with children, but clearly she’d already won his boy over - Something he would personally attest to not being an easy feat.  Divines help the poor woman if Alvor’s girl ever got wind of her.

Runa’s legs were twice as long as Frodnar’s, at least, but she held back and let the boy get a little bit ahead of her.  For his part, the boy’s face was all earnest excitement and effort.  Just as he was about to leap onto the first step onto the Inn’s porch, her long, thin, but surprisingly strong arms wrapped around his waist and jerked him up off his feet.  He squealed in protest, her laughter, deep and from the belly, in his ear. 

“HEY!” he cried. “No fair!  That’s cheating!”

“Life isn’t fair, little man,” she said, spinning around and plopping him down with a peck to the top of his head.  “Don’t worry Frodnar. You’ll have your prize anyway.”

“Thanks!” he exclaimed, beaming.

“What’s this now?” asked Hod with a tired chuckle as he caught up with Runa, Frodnar darting inside to wiggle his way through the morning crowd and grab a few seats.

“Hm? Oh, I told him I’d give him a drake or two for some sweetrolls if he won the race.”

“Ha! Just make sure _you’re_ the one answering to my wife if he gives her a fit today.”  
  
"Of course,” she said, holding open the door to let him go in ahead of her. “I wouldn’t dream of letting you take her wrath for that.”  
  
The air inside the inn was warm and a bit hazy from dust and fire-smoke.  Sounds of early morning laborers and a [few mild plucks of lyre strings](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f7RrcDPHEvE) from the tired Bard were actually soothing to her ears, and helped to mask the leftover bits of ringing in them from the day before. Their meal was uneventful, and for that Runa was grateful. Frodnar got his few septims and scurried off to make sure he got the first rolls of the day.

With well wishes, thanks, and gratitudes exchanged, she finally parted ways with her hosts and new friends. A quick stop by the blacksmith earned her a quiver of steel arrows, and at the Trader, a small jar of black charcoal paint to dab in decoration around her eyes. Practical in more than one way, it did not just hide the glare of the sun from her eyes, but made their coloring a bit less outstanding as well.

Shifting the bag on her shoulder, Runa took one last look at the town over her shoulder before stepping out onto the road towards Whiterun. In her hands, she turned over a well worn, but long since touched book that had caught her eye as she left the Valerius’ trade shop.

_The Book of the Dragonborn_

For certain, she had read it before - many times.  It had been a few years since she’d had cause to, and longer even than that since she’d possessed a copy of her own.  When she had inquired as to the price, Camilla smiled and put it in her hands. 

   _“No charge. It’s been so long since anyone’s looked at it, I had forgotten it was even here.  Consider it a down payment for services rendered if you ever have cause to go to the barrows at Bleak Falls and find the Claw those thieves took.”_

Runa had spent the last five years hunting for scraps of proof to the legends and secret history of her bloodline, to see for herself if she could where they had come from and what had long ago been denied them. Making sure to glance up periodically to avoid walking face first into a rock or a tree, she flipped the cover open and smoothed back the first few pages. Perhaps she could find a few answers to the conflicts and chaos of the present day by looking back.

_‘Many people have heard the term “Dragonborn” - we are of course ruled by the “Dragonborn Emperors” - but the true meaning of the term is not commonly understood...’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done! ^_^
> 
> Hopefully its's not too much of an info dump. A few more references to just why Runa was in Cyrodiil, a basic sketch of the recipe for her and Ulfric's 'I fucking hate you,' cake, and a glimpse into Runa's fondness for children. Tell me what you think! And I hope you enjoy!
> 
> As always, Runa is portrayed by Alyssa Sutherland's role as 'Princess Aslaug' on the History Channel's (copyrighted) show, 'Vikings'. I did a little Pixlr editing to make her eyes green, but I don't think it's all that obvious due to the darkness of the cap. But, it's there. So nyah.

**Author's Note:**

> SO! *Orkey is the deity in the Ancient Nordic Pantheon that is represented by the Fox animal totem. He is considered a liar and deceiver by men, as they believe he robbed them of the long lifespans they once had that were just as long as Elves.
> 
> As for what she's speaking - It's what I imagine Nords in Ysgramor's day, before they fell under the subjugation and lingual influence of the Dragons, sounded like. It's the best I could cobble together from actual Old Norse/Norweigan Viking history.
> 
> Yes, her necklace is the one Ondolemar gave her mother Freya.
> 
> Any questions beyond that? Well you'll just have to keep reading, won't you? Mwua - ha - ha!


End file.
